


The Side of the Angels (LONG HIATUS)

by gossamerstarsxx (orphan_account)



Series: The End of the World as We Know It [1]
Category: Doctor Who (2005), Sherlock (TV), Supernatural, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Crossover, F/M, Gen, M/M, Multi, Other, Superwhoavengelock, Superwholock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-05-21
Updated: 2013-05-24
Packaged: 2017-11-05 19:15:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 18,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/410060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/gossamerstarsxx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Walter Lawson, the newest face in British politics, is regarded as a godsend by most of the population. Sherlock Holmes and John Watson have very different ideas. Perturbed by the fact that both Lawson’s past and policies are a mystery, Sherlock and John set out to learn more about the man. Yet before they even get out the door with their investigation, they are approached by an American named Nicholas Fury. Fury claims that he needs their help, and that in helping him, they will also be able to unravel the mystery of Walter Lawson. An apprehensive John and ecstatic Sherlock agree to accompany Fury to New York. There, Sherlock and John meet a peculiar man who calls himself the Doctor, as well as a group of singularly talented but obviously unstable individuals who can only be called “superheroes.” The Doctor presents them all with a slew of information that not only turns their world upside down, but also gives new depth to the mystery Sherlock faces. He and John are working together with a group of people who shouldn't exist against a foe they never believed in, and their only hope lies in Sherlock’s ability to locate three men: Dean Winchester, his little brother Sam Winchester, and their curious companion Castiel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Theory and Data

**Author's Note:**

> Sherlock and John are post-Reichenbach.  
> The Avengers & Co. are post-movie. Their characters are an amalgamation of their comic book incarnations as well as their movie portrayals.  
> The Doctor and Rose are from late in series 2.  
> Team Free Will, etc. are from mid season 5.
> 
> Chapters are separated into sub-chapters. The POV character is stated at the beginning of each sub-chapter.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Britain has become a bit peculiar, and Sherlock is right (as usual).

 

**◄ J O H N►**

 “John, I am telling you, there is something a bit not good about this Walter Lawson fellow,” Sherlock muttered. The detective was crouched in his chair like a great dark bird, thin hands folded in front of his face as if in prayer, but his fervent eyes were focused on the telly.

John nearly resisted the urge to roll his eyes, then remembered that Sherlock wasn’t looking at him anyway. “Are you sure you’re not just suffering from case withdrawal, Sherlock?” he asked, already knowing that Sherlock would deny it. Over the past few weeks he had become used to Sherlock voicing vague suspicions about Britain’s newest political leader—a man whom everyone else in the country seemed to regard as brilliant—but they were beginning to wear on him.

“I am quite sure, John, thank you,” Sherlock replied. His voice was like ice, and John sighed. _I’m in for it now,_ he thought, tilting his head back to stare at the ceiling as Sherlock’s voice began to wash over him.

“Does it not bother you,” Sherlock said, “That I have been unable to uncover anything of substance in this man’s history? He claims to have been born in Dorset. The copy of his birth certificate says as much, but no one there seems to remember him nor his parents. He says that he was homeschooled, which conveniently accounts for his having next to no contemporaries who remember him from childhood. He also says that he traveled for most of his adult life, attending uni somewhere out of the country. This is convenient as well, as it accounts for very few people here in Britain having heard of him prior to his entrance into the political world. The man is a ruddy stranger and half of Britain is convinced that he is some sort of grand and wonderful savior!”

 “Some people enjoy their privacy, Sherlock,” John said, for what felt like the thousandth time. “And really, it isn’t as if the bloke’s become the Prime Minister yet.”

“Yet it’s not out of the question,” Sherlock grumbled. He hooked his thin hands together in front of his knees, hugging his legs like an overgrown child.

_Pouting, are we?_ John grinned a little despite himself before asking, “What does Mycroft have to say about him, then?”

The corner of Sherlock’s mouth twisted up slightly as he tore his eyes away from the man on the screen to look at John. “My dear brother,” he began in rather a more jolly tone of voice than a moment before, “Has been unable to gain an audience with Mr. Lawson. It’s ruffled his feathers quite considerably.”

“I can only imagine,” John felt his lips twisting into a smirk themselves, imagining how flustered the elder Holmes must be by Lawson’s inattention. He stared down at his laptop for a moment longer before closing it, recognizing that Sherlock was not going to be silent until he had voiced every single one of his opinions. Of course, it wasn’t as if the great git was actually talking _to_ him; oh no, it was more like he was talking _at_ him, but since Sherlock was going to talk either way, John supposed he might as well listen.

“He even _looks_ suspicious,” Sherlock mumbled, kicking his legs out from under him and landing on his bottom in the soft armchair. He leaned forward, elbows pressed into his bony knees, his slender neck craned forward as if a closer proximity to Lawson’s image on the telly would help him to deduce just what was so off about the actual man.

“Tall, very thin and very pale…dark hair, rarely smiles, and when he does…” Sherlock leaned forward further, watching as Lawson’s thin lips spread in what John considered to be a rather modest smile.

Sherlock made a sound of disgust. “When he smiles it’s as if he’s laughing at the rest of us, John. The man has some sort of secret, and he takes fiendish delight in the fact that no one has yet discovered it.”

John let out a rough laugh. “Sherlock, you do realize that you have just described yourself, don’t you?”

Sherlock glanced up at him and scowled. “Nonsense, John. I would never slick my hair back in such an absurd manner, and I keep secrets from no one.”

At that, the smile melted off John's face before he could catch it, and a voice that he hated sang inside his head:

_(He's a liar)_

Sherlock, as usual, picked up on his expression like a mind-reader. “Oh, fine then, but those fools at the Met don’t count,” hesaid, folding his hands in front of his face once more. “I keep no secrets from you, John, at the very least.”

_(Do you see he will always lie to you)_

John ground his teeth together, trying to rearrange his face into something that wasn't still angry and hurt, but it evidently wasn't working. A fleeting wince of pain played across Sherlock's face, and John was only a little ashamed at the childish sense of satisfaction he got from it.

“Point taken, John,” Sherlock said quietly, looking away from him. “Although I reiterate that it was a life or death situation in which the secret I kept from you helped to preserve your own life.”

It was the same thing Sherlock had said three months ago when he showed up at the door of 221B, and he said it in the same mild tone of voice that he had used then, albeit it much clearer and less blood choked. There was no noticeable crookedness to Sherlock’s nose _now,_ but then again John’s hands were talented at plenty of other things besides throwing punches.

_Shoving broken noses back into place and stitching up split skin, for example._ John huffed a little, cleared his throat, and tried to let it go. He _had_ to let it go, if he wanted to continue living and working with Sherlock, but it was there nevertheless, a line drawn in the sand between them that neither of them dared cross.

He settled himself on the arm of Sherlock’s chair and said, “If you’re really so concerned about him, why don’t we go out to one of his political rallies? He’s been giving speeches all over London for the past week, there’s bound to be one nearby in the next day or so. Maybe if you get a closer look at him you’ll see you’ve just been bored all along.”

He’d meant it playfully, but the look Sherlock shot him was fierce. “I am _not_ bored, John. There is something off about this man, and if I am the only person on this bloody planet intelligent enough to notice it, I will be painfully unsurprised.”

John nearly undid his careful reconstruction of Sherlock’s nose, but then decided he didn’t want to expend the energy to fix the bloody prat up again. Instead he went back to his laptop, searched Lawson’s name, and found the date of the politician’s next speech.

“He’s speaking at Hamilton House tomorrow,” said John, trying to keep his voice light. “Shall we go, then?”

Sherlock grunted in reply, and John gave up.

“Right, then,” he said, snatching up his coat, “I’ll be going out. Don’t wait up.”

He wasn’t surprised when Sherlock did not reply. 

 

 

◄ **J O** **H** **N ►**

It was a quarter of one when John finally neared the flat, having walked what felt like the length and breadth of all of London twice over. In reality he’d only walked about for a good hour or two earlier in the evening before meeting Lestrade at a nearby pub, but that was where the night seemed to have gotten away from him.

Walter Lawson was quite literally the talk of the town. John had been a soldier and as such he had a fairly healthy respect for Queen and country, but he’d never really gotten too involved in matters of politics. He’d always been too deeply involved in something else: uni, a war, Sherlock, his grief, and then Sherlock again. Spending most of the night at the pub with Lestrade had made him appreciate those preoccupations.

Everyone in the little bar had been talking about Lawson. They had exclaimed over him with bright looks in their eyes, claiming that he was going to turn Britain around, that he was going to make their country safer, richer, that he was going to any number of great and wonderful things for their nation. John never heard a bad word spoken about the man, and for a little while somewhere in the vicinity of his third lager he had felt queerly compelled to join in the praise. He raised his glass to toast the man more times than he could count, and had listened with a smile on his face to all the acclaim being heaped upon the young politician.

He had been sitting with Lestrade when it happened. The two of them were smiling and nodding as a tipsy Mike Stamford declared, “It’s my theory that this Lawson bloke might be the best thing that’s ever happened to our country!”

John had frozen with the glass halfway to his lips.

That one word—theory—had thrown him off, and suddenly John didn’t feel so cheerful anymore.

_“It’s a capital mistake to theorize before one has data,”_ came Sherlock’s voice from somewhere within his mind. _“Insensibly one begins to twist facts to suit theories, instead of theories to suit facts.”_

John had fallen silent, listening to the conversation around him with new ears, listening like Sherlock would listen were the great git of a detective there with him. What he heard did not surprise him, but it unnerved him: not single person in the pub was discussing any specific plan that Lawson had outlined to bring about the changes they all seemed so confident that he could make. There was not a single voice which said, “Lawson has promised to do such and such in order to bring about such and such result.” No one asked, “How is he going to achieve that, d’you reckon?” In no conversation did he hear anyone mention any specific plans, any concrete strategies. All he heard was one unanimous voice, singing the praises of a man who had appeared out of the woodwork, all with that queer brightness in their eyes.

John had made his excuses to Lestrade and Stamford as politely as he could, but their eyes on his retreating back had still felt eerily like being in the sights of a sniper. He walked back to Baker Street more slowly than he felt comfortable in an effort to calm his jangled nerves.

_“It’s like they’re under some kind of spell,”_ John thought as he rummaged in his coat pocket for his keys. The air outside felt colder than usual, and it seemed as if something sinister were lurking the shadowy streets. John dropped his keys twice before he fitted them into the lock, and though he chastised himself for his nervousness, he didn’t really begin to feel calm until he was opening the door into the living room of 221B. He was so relieved to be home that even Sherlock’s raised eyebrows and slightly snarky “You do  look terrible, John,” were comforting.

He collapsed in the armchair across from the sofa. He felt a happiness that bordered on giddy as he looked at Sherlock, sprawled over the sofa in his dressing gown, with John’s laptop sitting on his lower stomach. The idiot would likely have a crick in his neck the next day, but it was such a _normal_ sight, one that was part and parcel of what John regarded as _home._

When John didn’t answer, Sherlock sat up very slightly, glancing over at John with a little half-smile on his lips. “What? Aren’t you going to tell me I’m being rude?”

_Home. Definitely home._ John smiled in response. It was hard for him not to smile when Sherlock looked at him like that, his cupid’s bow lips slightly quirked, as if he were only waiting for John to make him smile completely.

“No,” John said, absently rolling his stiff shoulder as the warmth of the flat began to spread through him. “No, I think I’ll apologize to you instead, Sherlock.”

The dark slashes of Sherlock’s brows disappeared into the curly mop of his fringe. “What on earth for, John? I wasn’t truly angry with you earlier, you know that.”

“No, no no no,” John waved a hand at him. “It’s not about that. I’m talking about all the things I’ve been saying about your interest in this Lawson bloke. It seems that…well, I should have known, it being you and all, but I think you’re on to something.” He proceeded to relate the story of what the pub had been like, and even managed to get Sherlock to sit up straight as he told it.

 “…and it was probably just nerves, I expect, but damn if I wasn’t jumpy on the way home,” he finished. Sherlock was sitting up completely now, legs crossed Indian-style on the sofa as he tapped away at John’s laptop.

“I can’t say I’m surprised by your story, John,” Sherlock muttered.

John rolled his eyes. “Of course you aren’t, pardon me for—“

Sherlock flapped a hand at him. “John, do be quiet until I’m finished! I meant that I am not surprised by your story because the same thing happened to me, albeit in a much more impersonal manner. I blogged about my suspicions shortly after you left, and I have been receiving nothing but anger and vitriol in my comments section since.”

He turned the laptop toward John, who took it and began to scroll through the many hateful posts. Sherlock had called Lawson a “shady, suspicious stranger who should not be allowed anywhere near Parliament,” but otherwise he stuck to more concrete observations, such as the fact that no one, Lawson included, ever mentioned any concrete plans, and that Lawson’s background was exceptionally sketchy.

“Sherlock, this is…disturbing,” John scrubbed a hand across his face, which was heavy with blondish scruff at such a late hour. “How can so many people be so…so…”

“Idiotic?” Sherlock asked, taking the laptop back and clicking it closed. “I don’t know, John. I ask myself that question every day.”

“Sherlock, this goes beyond your definition of idiocy,” John said. “This is idiotic even by the standards of normal people. The public usually asks at least _some_ questions…but with this man they’re asking none.”

“I know,” Sherlock muttered. His eyes had fixed themselves on some point John could not see, and as he began to steeple those long fingers beneath his chin, John knew the detective was closing off.

“While you’re pondering this in your mind palace, I think I’ll try to get some sleep,” John said. “I doubt I can, but I really ought to try. Will you at least eat something later?”

“Of course, John,” Sherlock said.

_He hasn’t heard a word I’ve said. In ten minutes he’ll ask me for a pen and wonder where I’ve gone._ Instead of the usual annoyance, John felt a surge of affection. He was smiling to himself as he trudged up the stairs to his bedroom, and managed to fall asleep almost at once.


	2. The Director

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sherlock and John are interrupted by a stranger with an eyepatch.

 

 

**◄ J O H N►**

John woke the next morning to a bedroom nearly as dark as it had been when he had fallen asleep. He stood up and pulled back the curtain, taking in the sight of deep grey clouds and steadily falling rain with a sigh. _I sincerely hope Sherlock has forgotten what I said about going to that rally._ Between the horrible weather and the events of the night before, John was not feeling particularly excited about the prospect of investigating the mysterious politician. He reached for his dressing gown, only to find that it was not hanging on its customary hook on the back of his door.

“Dammit, Sherlock,” he mumbled, rubbing his gooseflesh-speckled arms and heading down the stairs.

 “Coffee?” called Sherlock, popping his head around the corner from the kitchen. He was pale, the skin under his eyes a faded, sleepless lavender, curls spiraling off in all directions, and he was smiling broadly in a way that made John raise a skeptical eyebrow. He was also wearing John’s dressing gown over his own.

“Oh, come off it, John,” Sherlock said, his lips twisting instead into the lopsided smirk which John found so endearing and so infuriating at the same time. “I haven’t poisoned it.”

He stepped out of the kitchen and over a small mountain of manila folders, placing the warm mug in John’s hand as he brought his own to his lips. Up close, the evidence that he hadn’t slept became even more prominent.

John sniffed the coffee, which earned him a scowl.

 “I’m teasing, Sherlock,” he said as he took a swallow. It _tasted_ fine, perfect in fact, and the warmth was just what he needed to get rid of the chill he’d brought with him from his room. “Thank you, really. But you do know coffee isn’t a suitable substitute for sleep, don’t you? And will you _please_ stop stealing my dressing gown when you get cold in the middle of the night? You own coats, you know.”

“Yes, but I wouldn’t want to mess them up,” Sherlock answered, shrugging out of the dressing gown and handing it to John. “Blankets are also too cumbersome, before you make the suggestion. And yes, I know that coffee is not a substitute for sleep. You only tell me the same thing every morning." He settled his coffee cup onto the end table and stretched one impossibly long arm over to the sofa, grabbing John’s laptop and opening it across his knees.

John set down his cup to pull the dressing gown around himself. It was still warm from Sherlock’s body, and the material even smelled faintly of Sherlock.

_Well, Sherlock and something chemical. Like formaldehyde. Oh, God._

John abandoned that train of thought as quickly as possible. Instead he replied, “Well if you’d listen I wouldn’t have to tell you, now would I?” He leaned against the side of Sherlock’s chair, looking down at his laptop. “Also, what on earth is wrong with your own computer?”

“Frozen,” Sherlock replied, “We really should get dressed, I suppose, that rally starts at nine.”

“What, it’s still on?” asked John. He felt sure that it would have been postponed, what with the rain, but Sherlock pointed at Lawson’s website: no cancellation had been posted.

“No one will show,” John muttered, but even as he spoke the words he knew that it wasn’t true. People would show up  with their strangely bright eyes and disconcerting smiles and not a single one of them would ask themselves why they were doing it, let alone why they were doing it for a man about whom they knew next to nothing.

“Exactly,” Sherlock muttered. John merely rolled his eyes, too used to Sherlock’s habit of deducing his thoughts to even comment upon it any longer. “I want to see the expression on their faces for myself, John. Maybe some sort of aerosol agent, like the Baskerville case…?”

John looked down at his coffee cup again, momentarily horrified; Sherlock pushed the bottom of the ceramic cup upward with his finger until it was at John’s lips. “Not poisoned. Drink it.” He looked up at John for half a moment, smiling at him, and laughed quietly when John finally shrugged and drained the cup.

“If I start hallucinating a bloody monster or something when we get to this rally, I’m not going to bother to fix your nose again,” John said with a yawn. He stretched his arms above his head, feeling much more awake after his spine popped a time or two. He was rubbing his shoulder and rolling it around a bit when he noticed that Sherlock’s pale eyes were fixed on him. The intensity of his gaze was a little unnerving.

“Sherlock? What is it, did I spill coffee on my shirt or something?”

Sherlock blinked, looking up at John as if he had been shaken out of a daydream. After a moment or two the detective found his tongue again and said, “Your…yes. I mean no, there’s nothing on your shirt. Your shoulder, though, should we pick up some methyl salicylate?”

“Methyl sali…oh, you mean that Deep Heat stuff?” John shrugged. “If it’s still stiff by this afternoon, maybe. It usually works itself out.”

“Right then,” Sherlock mumbled, rising out of his chair with the laptop in his hands. “Go shower, will you? I took mine last night, so I haven’t stolen all the hot water. We do need to hurry a bit, the cabs will be driving more slowly in the rain and I don’t want to be late.”

 “All right,” John sighed, resigning himself to the day’s activities. “See you in a bit, then.”

 

 

 

  
** ◄S H E R L O C K► ** **  
**

Sherlock went into his bedroom and shut the door almost immediately after John started up the shower, clutching his already-wild hair in a moment of private frustration.

_(Get yourself together damn you)_

That was no longer so easy for him as it had once been, a fact which he had been forced to acknowledge many times over the past three months. His mind was as sharp as always, his ability to infer information and make accurate deductions remained unparalleled…

_(But I am plagued by bloody distractions this never happened before why I can't I focus)_

Sherlock sat down hard on his bed, wrinkling the nice purple shirt he had laid out for himself. Since his return to London and his life with John, he had become increasingly aware of a growing weakness in his ability to ignore certain information and emotions that would interfere with his work.

He had first noticed it in the days following his reunion with John, when the doctor’s stiff, formal inquiries about the stitches across his nose would stick so sharply in Sherlock’s mind that he once found himself sitting beside a vivisected corpse for twenty minutes without even examining a single exposed organ. He had been so consumed by the formality of their dialogue, by the careful blankness of John’s expression, and by his own inability to understand _why_ it should consume him.

It had gotten better as the weeks went by, but still Sherlock found himself dwelling on things as he had never done in the past. Any time there was any allusion to his absence—or any time John grew angry enough with him to mention it—Sherlock was unable to banish those unwanted thoughts. He could and did work around them, but they were obnoxious, and occasionally so consuming that he truly was distracted from the work to the point that he had to take a break from it.

_(Vexing infuriating annoying absolutely maddening)_

Sherlock glared at himself in his mirror. He _looked_ mad, all wild hair and disheveled pyjamas, with bruiselike shadows underscoring the hectic eyes that burned out of his white face like pale flame.

The shower had stopped running. Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment and counted to ten, then stood up and began to get dressed. It _was_ cold, and he could feel gooseflesh tightening over the array of scars he’d earned himself during his two years of being dead. His fingers wouldn’t cooperate when he first tried to button his shirt, and he had to rub them together for a moment or two before they would consent to work properly.

After brushing his unruly hair and slipping into a water-resistant variation on his favorite coat, Sherlock turned back to the mirror.

 _Better,_ he thought, his thoughts finally consenting to come in a more regulated and sane pattern.

He left his room just as John came back down the steps, slipping his arms into a familiar black coat.

 _The cemetery,_ Sherlock remembered, and something twisted inside him. It was fleeting, wrenching pain, something awful and a little frightening that made him have to close his eyes and once more count to ten before he felt confident that he could speak without becoming undignified.

 “Sherlock, it’s _pouring,_ ” John said, peering out the window as he did up the zipper of his jacket. “Are you certain you want to do this?”

“Quite,” he replied, his voice still a little shorter than he wanted it to be. He swallowed hard, then turned to open the door.

Behind it he found Mrs. Hudson, her hand raised as if to knock.

“Oh, boys, were you going out?” she asked. “I didn’t know, I would have told him—“

“Told who?” asked Sherlock, stepping aside to allow Mrs. Hudson to come in.

“The man downstairs,” Mrs. Hudson replied. She folded and unfolded her hands a few times, obviously flustered. “I did ask him to come inside, but he said he’d just wait on the steps and really I was a bit relieved that he did, such a rough looking man—”

Sherlock met John’s eye over the top of Mrs. Hudson’s head.

“What do you mean by rough, exactly?” asked John.

“Just a rough man, you know, dear,” she said. “What with that eyepatch, and the scars, and wearing all black and built rather solid. Bald as the day he was born, too, and carrying a great big black umbrella. I tried to tell him that you were quite busy, Sherlock, but he’s so persistent—”

“Did he give his name?” asked Sherlock, already scanning through his mind for a name that matched the description given. He was coming up with nothing, which piqued his curiosity, and he turned to head down the stairs.

“Fury,” Mrs. Hudson replied, following after John and Sherlock like a nervous mother hen. “Nicholas Fury. An American, I think.”

“We’ll meet with him,” Sherlock decided. “I’m sure it’s simply another case, Mrs. Hudson. We shall be fine.”

It took another moment or two to assure Mrs. Hudson that everything would be all right. She went back inside her apartment still looking rather nervous, and when John opened the door, Sherlock could understand why.

Nicholas Fury was not so much a _rough_ looking man as an intimidating one. He was tall and black, with one arm fixed behind his back.

_Pseudo-military posture, the umbrella throws it off, member of some branch of armed forces at one point, perhaps Marines._

Scars extended from the lower right area of his lined forehead and down beneath a heavy black eyepatch.

_Lost it in a military conflict, likely somewhere in the Middle East, probably the Gulf War judging by his age and the look of the scars._

This mysterious man looked to Sherlock and said, “I assume that you are Mr. Holmes?”

“Yes,” said Sherlock, keeping his voice terse. “Come in.” He stepped back to allow Fury inside. John took the umbrella once it was closed, setting it in a corner off the rug.

“It’s good to meet you, Mr. Holmes,” said Fury, extending a black-gloved hand to Sherlock. “Nicholas Fury, director of S.H.I.E.L.D.”

Sherlock—after a mild glare from John—did shake the proffered hand. Even Fury’s firm, brief grip was redolent of military involvement.

“May I ask what brings you here, Director Fury?” asked Sherlock. “As you can see, my partner and I were just headed out to attend an event.” Sherlock nodded to John and the doctor stepped forward, offering Fury his own hand.

 “Doctor John Watson,” he said, “Pleasure.”

Fury took it, saying that it was nice to meet him, then turned his attention back to Sherlock. Sherlock was not surprised, but neither did he appreciate it. People who did not know them often had a habit of dismissing John out of hand, and though John rarely took offense to it, Sherlock usually took it for him.

 “Mr. Holmes, would that event be the political rally of Walter Lawson?” asked Fury.

Sherlock betrayed his surprise only by a slight arch of his eyebrows, but he saw the way John’s eyes had flown wide.

_Impressive, but slightly disturbing._

“Yes, it would be. How would you know that, Director Fury?”

The man did not seem perturbed by the frigid quality of Sherlock’s voice.

 “I know a lot of things, Mr. Holmes,” said Fury, meeting Sherlock’s gaze evenly. “For example, I know that you’re very interested in Lawson. That you seem to think he’s some sort of potential threat.”

Sherlock said nothing, but narrowed his bluish eyes nearly to slits. He was infuriated with himself for not being able to deduce more about the reasons for Nick Fury’s visit, but some of his anger was negated when he saw John step slightly in front of him. His shoulders were set and his arms were crossed, indicating that he was on the defensive, and when he spoke his tone of voice had hardened the way it did when he pulled rank. Sherlock had to hide a small smile inside the folds of his scarf.

 “Director Fury,” John said, “The opinions Sherlock voiced in that blog post were perfectly legal. If you are here to censure him, it is you who are in the wrong, and I can promise you that—”

Fury took a small step backward, evidently surprised by John. Sherlock’s smile widened beneath his scarf.

“Relax, Dr. Watson,” said Fury, “There’s no need to get angry. The blog post is what brought me here, true, but I am no friend of Walter Lawson, and neither are the people who work for me.”

“And who works for you, exactly?” John asked. He’d modulated his tone somewhat, but his arms remained crossed over his chest. _Still doesn’t trust him._

“All in due time,” said Fury. “You see, Mr. Holmes here was absolutely correct about Walter Lawson. The man is a threat, but we’ve seen him before. What we’re more worried about is who he’s working for. We think that whoever they are, they’re the biggest threat the world has ever seen...that _any_ world has seen.”

 _Any world?_ Sherlock was perplexed by the choice of words, but John spoke up first.

 “Excuse me,” John said. “Excuse me, wait, what…what do you mean _any_ world?”

Fury sighed, surveying the two of them with a grave expression on his craggy face. _He knows something that he is not telling us._

Sherlock’s suspicions were confirmed when Fury replied, “Exactly what I just said, gentlemen. I am afraid that I can’t say any more here. It’s already started, else I wouldn’t even be here right now. I’m here to ask you to return with me to S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters in New York City. There, I will be able to explain everything. Whether or not you believe is up to you.”

_Intriguing._

Sherlock found that there was a broad smile on his face as he rocked up on the balls of his feet. His body was filled with that vibrating, nervous energy that nothing but a new mystery could elicit within him. For now, there was nothing to distract him, and he lost himself in imagining how this new case could go.

 

 

** ◄J O H N►  
**

_This is happening, isn’t it?_ John glanced over at Sherlock with a sigh. The detective’s brilliant eyes were alight with intrigue and curiosity, and he was practically bouncing on the balls of his feet in excitement. It was apparent that no matter John’s personal misgivings about getting into a long, black limousine with a man who spoke nonsense and wore both an eyepatch and a M&P 9mm, Sherlock fully intended to accompany Fury.

 “Right then, well,” John sighed, recognizing defeat. “Just give me a mo’, yeah?” He turned and darted back up the stairs, waving off Fury’s insistent talk that someone could be sent along to pick up anything they needed. He came back down the stairs with his jacket across one arm, securing his own service revolver into a shoulder holster. He couldn’t help but grin a bit at Fury’s expression.

“Sorry,” John said, shrugging back into his coat. “It’s actually Captain John Watson, as well.”


	3. Doctor Who?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sherlock and John are taken to Stark Tower, and no one will answer Sherlock's question: "Doctor who?"

 

 

** ◄J O H N► **

He jerked awake, breath rushing out of his chest with a soft sound that would have gone unnoticed by anyone else but the man sitting across from him. Sherlock’s pale eyes were like tiny moons in the semi-darkness, and he was leaning across the aisle toward John. One hand rested on John’s knee, fingers pressing into his skin ever so lightly.

“You were dreaming, John,” said Sherlock quietly. “I thought it best to wake you before it got worse.”

_Good idea, mate,_ John thought, as he struggled to swallow around the catch in his throat. He glanced around the plane’s massive cabin. He and Sherlock were rather secluded from Nick Fury and his assistant Maria, who were both dozing in seats closer to the cockpit, but they were still in close quarters. If Sherlock hadn’t woken him, John felt sure he’d had frightened both Americans out of their sleep with his screams. _And considering the heat they’re packing that might not go over too well._

John’s heart was still hammering in his chest. He wasn’t sure why; he had woken up before the worst of it, after all, but when he looked back down at his lap and saw the way Sherlock’s fingers were curled into the material of his trousers, he understood. He suddenly felt very aware of the skin beneath his clothes.

 “Which…which was it?” Sherlock asked, and John thought he detected the barest trembling in the hand that lay on his knee. He glanced toward Sherlock’s face, but in the shadows, the detective’s expression was hidden.

“St. Bart’s, I think,” John admitted. It had gotten no farther than the part where he saw Sherlock silhouetted against the sky, and for that John was grateful, but he almost wished he would have lied and said it had been Afghanistan when Sherlock drew his hand back.

“I thought…” Sherlock paused, and John noticed that he’d closed his eyes. A few moments later he opened them again and looked back up at John, folding his hands in front of him. “I thought that perhaps the nightmares would have tapered off after I had been back for awhile. It seems that I was mistaken.”

_I don’t think they’re ever going to taper off, Sherlock,_ John thought. _The ones from Afghanistan never did._ John said none of this, however. He only shrugged noncommittally, shifting his ankle to his knee and crossing his arms over his chest. Sherlock fell silent, perhaps recognizing that John did not want to go down that road.

“Have you read any of those notes he gave you?” John asked, just to be saying something, just to let Sherlock know that he had not been completely shut out.

 “A bit,” Sherlock replied, and John thought he saw a brief gleam of teeth as Sherlock smiled.

“And? What d’you make of it, then?” asked John. He’d meant to peruse the thick manila folder as soon as Sherlock had finished with it, but he’d dozed off before he had the opportunity.

“Well, we’re either being brought in to find a serial killer with severe religious psychosis, or we’re being kidnapped and taken to America by a man with a gun and severe religious psychosis,” Sherlock said, and there was no doubt about it now—the man was smiling. Beaming, in fact.

“I see you have hopes for the former.” John smirked, affected as always by the contagious quality of Sherlock’s smiles. “But religious psychosis?” he uncrossed both his arms and legs, leaning across the aisle to grab the manila folder. “What does that even—oh.”

His eyes had fallen on the header of the first page in the folder, which read simply: DEMONS.

“D…demons?” John glanced up from the folder, his expression teetering somewhere between incredulity and laughter. “What on _earth,_ Sherlock? He didn’t offer any sort of…I don’t know, _explanation_ about this?”

“He told me to read it and ask my questions after we’ve landed in Manhattan, because the Doctor could answer better than he could.” said Sherlock.

“The Doctor?” John’s eyebrows drew together. “Doctor who?”

Sherlock scowled slightly, shooting a dark glance toward Fury. “The Director over there didn’t mention a name, nor could I get one out of him. As such, I can only assume that the Doctor is someone with a PhD. in an area related to the material in the folder. It’s the hypothesis that makes the most sense.” _But it doesn’t feel correct,_ he added to himself, pursing his lips in displeasure. _It doesn’t feel correct at all._

 “Strange,” John shook his head, then glanced toward the large map at the front of the plane. “We’ve got…what, two hours left? Sounds about right.” He scanned over the pages in the folder. He’d fallen asleep two hours into the flight, so he’d slept for perhaps three before the nightmares had crept in. That was better than usual—but then Sherlock was right across from him, wasn’t he? He thumbed through the pages.

_Demons. Angels. Werewolves. Rugarus. Succubae._

“Is he serious?” John muttered, more to himself than anyone else as he flipped through more pages. “Is he really serious?”

“We won’t know until we get there, I suppose.” said Sherlock. “Go on and read it, John. It might be useless, but it will pass the time.”

“I will if you’ll try to sleep until we get there,” said John. “I’m sure you haven’t slept a wink since we got on this plane, have you?”

Sherlock scowled again. “John, I am not tired. I could not sleep if I wanted to.”

John’s mouth spread into a grin. “What? Did you get spooked reading about all the monsters?”

“I most certainly did _not,”_ said Sherlock. He crossed his arms over his chest and for a moment looked so petulant that John expected him to stick out his tongue. “Monsters aren’t _real,_ John.”

“Then you ought to have no problem falling asleep,” said John, opening the folder over his knees and stacking the pages together. “Just close your eyes, at least.”

Sherlock glared at him, but when John raised an eyebrow and assured him he’d protect him from anything that went _bump_ in the night, the consulting detective huffed, leaned his seat back, and shut his eyes.

John had only just started reading about Lilith and Lucifer when he heard the first of Sherlock’s gentle snores.

 

 

 

** ◄S H E R L O C K  &  J O H N► **

“Sherlock, will you sit down?”

John reached out without thinking, seizing one of Sherlock’s narrow wrists. He dragged the detective down into the chair beside his own, which were only two of many that lined the edge of the vast conference room table. Two mugs sat in front of them, one still mostly full.

_His heart is beating so fast,_ John thought, brushing his thumb over the thin inner skin of Sherlock’s wrist. He considered telling him to be patient, but that usually only served to heighten the impatience. Instead he dropped Sherlock’s hand and pushed the full mug toward him.

“Drink,” John told him. “All your pacing is making me nervous.”

Sherlock’s only reply was a scowl. He turned away to glance at the door, arching his neck to peer through the narrow pane of glass set into the wood.

“Staring won’t make it happen any more quickly,” he heard John mumble, but Sherlock ignored him. He _did_ keep his seat, but so many ideas were chasing themselves through his mind that he was having a hard time keeping still.

_(Religious psychosis it must be serial killer perhaps escaped from a psych ward)_

He propped his elbows on the table, closing his eyes to avoid checking the door again.

_(Likely raised and abused by a priest or other religious figure)_

It was no use. Sherlock opened his eyes and glared at the doorway, wiling Fury to appear with this Doctor of his in tow. _I need more data!_   He was so absorbed in his own thoughts that when he felt the warm weight of John’s hand on his shoulder, he actually jumped in surprise.

“If you don’t stop fidgeting I’m going to chuck you out that window,” John muttered, taking his hand away and using it to flip back through the absurd folder Fury had given them. “And since I doubt this Stark bloke would appreciate me destroying his obviously expensive property, you should probably _be still.”_

John never _had_ fully understood how frustrating a lack of data could be.

“Fine,” Sherlock snapped, gathering his long legs beneath him until he was crouching in the chair.

_(Culprit is obviously very intelligent most of the legends and lore was very uncommon had never heard of most of it never had to learn it how long will it take m to learn it)_

"I've certainly had my fill of falling from buildings."

(Symbols alone would take me a week most likely more even if I went at it hard do I know anyone who is an expert in this area no I do not why is John looking at me that way I wonder if anyone from the...oh bloody hell Sherlock what have you done now)

John’s teeth clenched together so hard it was almost painful.

_(Git prat bloody lying arsehole not funny)_

As soon as he became conscious of the intensity with which he was glaring at his friend, John made an effort to turn away, hoping that Sherlock had been too preoccupied to notice. He knew better, of course; he felt Sherlock's eyes on him even as he began to pretend that pattern of the wallpaper across the room was suddenly very intriguing.

It did not take long for the insistence of Sherlock's gaze to draw him back. The detective's eyes were softer than usual, their bizarre conglomeration of greens and blues and hints of orange reminding John--absurdly--of weather-map images of hurricanes, and it occurred to John that a hurricane was exactly what Sherlock became when he was on a new case: unheeding, unthinking, following a course only he knew, never noticing or considering any damage left in his wake.

_(Damage right like what he did to me)_

John stamped out that hateful voice with an effort. He needed to move. He was furious with himself for saying something like that in the first place, furious that he couldn't seem to move past what had happened nearly two years ago now, and--yes, it was the truth-- _still_ furious with Sherlock for the same reason he'd been furious with him when he showed up at the door of 221B three months earlier. 

He stood, a little too abruptly, snatching his empty coffee cup off the table as he went.

Sherlock watched him cross toward the coffee machine in the corner.

_(His jaw is set grinding his teeth again moving with too much force shoulders are hunched and tight damn it)_

He closed his eyes for a moment.

_(You've done it again haven't you)_

Sherlock slipped out of his chair, picking up his own mug, and crossed over to where John stood. It was only after he got there and John looked up at him that Sherlock realized he had no idea what he was supposed to say.

"I've...made you angry. Again," he remarked at length, keeping his tone soft, neutral, hoping that acknowledgement would help defuse the careful blankness of John's expression.

_(You've made me angry every day for three months sometimes I can forget it sometimes I can't)_

John shoved his frustration down somewhere deep and looked away. He tucked his coffee mug into one of the slots on the machine. "I shouldn't have said what I did in the first place, I reckon."

Sherlock began to pour the old coffee into one of the machine’s many drains. When it was empty, he held it out to John, the small smile on his lips almost shy.

“Fresh cup? I, ah…I’ll drink it this time,” he promised. John could have hit him, if it wasn’t for that uncertain smile he was offering.

“Yes, all right,” he sighed. “Go sit down, yeah? I’ll…talk to it.”

 “It is fascinating, isn’t it?” Sherlock said, walking around the edge of the conference table and gazing up at the ceiling. “I believe Mycroft would commit murder for one of these.”

 “We should get you one,” John answered, settling Sherlock’s mug into a different slot. “That way you’ll have something to blather at while I’m off out. You know, I almost feel bad for talking about it, I’m sure it can hear us…er, JARVIS?”

The voice that answered him seemed to come from everywhere at once. Both John and Sherlock couldn’t help glancing around the room for a moment, the effect was so unnerving.

 “Yes, Dr. Watson? How may I be of service?”

John smiled, then realized he had nothing _at_ which to smile _._ He still felt like a bit of a prat talking to the AI, even though he had done it twice since Fury had explained it to him nearly two hours ago.

 “Er…could you do some more coffee? Please?”

“Of course, sir,” JARVIS answered. “One will be black, no milk or sugar. How shall I make the other?”

“Wait, you…you _remembered_ this time? How I take mine?” John asked, wishing he had something to _look at_ while he was speaking. “That’s…”

“Fascinating?” Sherlock supplied. He glanced up at the ceiling. “Black with two sugars,” he added.

 “I am programmed to detect patterns,” answered the AI, as the stainless steel machine began to whir. A moment later, two steaming streams of liquid began to flow into the mugs.

“Fascinating, yeah,” John agreed. He picked up the two mugs and turned to carry one to Sherlock.

“Please be careful,” said JARVIS, just as it had twice before. “The contents of those mugs are extremely hot.”

“Will do,” John replied, taking a sip from his own mug. He held Sherlock’s coffee out to him, but upon seeing the expression on the detective’s face, he only sighed and set the mug on the table.

“What is it now, Sherlock?” he asked, knowing full well he would not get a reply. Sherlock’s strange eyes were wide, his Cupid’s bow lips slightly parted. He held his thin hands poised below his chin, long fingers splayed apart as if he were preparing to catch something, but John knew he had already caught it. A moment later the detective was all movement again, pacing the carpet, drumming the tips of his fingers lightly together as he gazed at the ceiling.

“JARVIS!” he called, “May I have a word?”

“Yes, Mr. Holmes. How may I help you?”

_It really_ is _bothersome having nowhere to look,_ Sherlock thought, then launched into his question.

“Do you have any idea how much longer we shall be waiting in this bloody conference room?” he asked.

“Sherlock, don’t be _rude—”_

“John, do be quiet,” Sherlock said quickly. “JARVIS?”

“I am afraid that I do not know, Mr. Holmes, although I do apologize for the inconvenience,” replied the AI. “Please sit and enjoy your coffee. There is amaretto, Bailey’s, and Kahlua in the liquor cabinet beneath the refreshment station if you wish for something a bit stronger.”

“Couldn’t’ve told me that earlier, could you?” John muttered, but his comment was  drowned out by Sherlock’s frustration.

“I don’t want a bloody drink!”

“Oi, there’s no need to be rude to…” John began again, then stopped. He pinched the bridge of his nose. “To be rude to the AI robot in the walls. Right,” he finished, quietly and to himself.

Sherlock heard none of this byplay. _It must know_ something, he thought, pausing in his pacing. He settled his hands on his hips and turned his face upward again, glaring at the ceiling. Behind him, John was fighting the urge to snicker.

“Can you at _least_ tell me where Fury and this Doctor of his _are,_ then? And what’s taking them so long?”

 “Again, my apologies, Mr. Holmes,” JARVIS said, and John wondered how it was possible for an AI to sound genuinely remorseful. “But I am afraid that since you and Dr. Watson are not yet authorized on my servers, I am not allowed to disclose the location of any member of S.H.I.E.L.D., nor that of the Doctor.”

_I should have known,_ Sherlock scowled as he collapsed into his chair and reached for his coffee. _I should have recognized that such an AI would have security measures in place. Otherwise anyone could walk in and ask it anything they wanted. This Stark fellow is smart, but I think he’s also dangerous…that or dangerous people target him. Most likely the latter._

“Could you at least tell me who the Doctor _is?”_ Sherlock asked. “Surely a name wouldn’t be too much of a breach of your security.”

“He is the Doctor,” answered the AI, as if that was all the explanation anyone should need.

Sherlock’s eyebrow twitched; once again, John found himself trying to control the giggles that threatened to burst out of him.

“Yes, thank you, I gathered that,” Sherlock snapped. “But Doctor _who?”_

“Oh, just the Doctor.”

Sherlock and John whirled around, the reply having come from distinctly _behind_ them, rather than all around. There was a man leaning in the doorway. Behind him stood Fury, with a thin stack of manila folders cradled in one arm.

“I prefer to know the _names_ of the people I do business with, sir,” Sherlock said, but the man only smiled. It looked a bit forced, creasing his narrow face in the wrong ways and not quite reaching far enough to bring out the crow’s-feet crinkles at the corners of his brown eyes, but John at least could tell it was well-meant.

The man who called himself the Doctor swept into the room, a trench coat as wrinkled as Sherlock’s was immaculate billowing out behind him.

“Sherlock Holmes,” said the Doctor, extending a hand. “In the flesh, too. Brilliant! Conan Doyle would have a heart attack. He never liked you much, you know, but I think we’ll get along just fine, and please, for simplicity’s sake, I’m the Doctor. Just the Doctor.”


	4. Fact and Fiction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sherlock and John must come to terms with their fictional doppelgangers, Tony Stark shows off his coping skills, and the master assassins are outmatched.

 

 

 

 

 

 

  
** ◄ ** ** S H E R L O C K ** ** ► **

_(This isn't happening)_

Sherlock stared at the array of books spread upon the conference room table. A cold shiver caressed his spine, the like of which he hadn't felt since the day with Moriarty on the rooftop of Saint Bart's.

_(This can't be)_

Sherlock tried to swallow, but his mouth had suddenly become as dry as a length of sandpaper; he had to work his tongue for a moment, unsticking it from the roof of his mouth just in time to look up and see the Doctor waving a cheerful goodbye to an unamused Maria Hill. Fury's assistant was turning away down the corridor, laden down with a stack of ancient-looking books; the Doctor had two cradled in one arm, and another in his hand, which he thrust into John's own trembling ones with a pitying sort of smile.

"Well then! I think that's the lot," said the Doctor, setting the two books down next to the others on the table and beginning to arrange them into some kind of order. "I gave John the first one, you can have a look with him while I sort these out. Lucky Tony Stark never touched his father's library, I thought this might happen, and recent editions wouldn't be much use, I'm afraid. Now which...?"

"Sherlock..."

John looked up at him, and it was a mark of how deeply he had been shaken that Sherlock was able to detect the panic rising in John’s eyes. He turned the faded, yellowed book toward Sherlock, who clasped his hands firmly behind his back to still their shaking as he read the black words and date emblazoned on the inside pages.

_A Study in Scarlet. 1888._

"Right then!"

The Doctor took him by the shoulder, either oblivious to his and John's obvious state of shock or choosing not to notice it as he gestured to the spread of books on the conference room table.

"I've laid them out by publication date, after  _A Study in Scarlet_  of course," said the Doctor, bouncing on his toes as he grinned. "Bit of a shock, I know, but we're a bit short on time, so, baptism by fire it is!"

Sherlock glanced over at John, back toward the array of books, and then once more at John. To his relief, his doctor simply nodded his head and came forward, standing beside Sherlock to examine what looked to be the detective's entire life--past, present, and future--laid out inside a set of century-old novels.

_The Sign of the Four._  Sherlock flipped open the cover, seeking the publication date:   _1890_.

_The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes._

Sherlock's name glared up at him as if in accusation as he flipped open the first few pages to discover the publication date:  _1894_.

"Bloody hell," he heard John murmur beside him, as he began flipping open the rest of the books.

_The Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes. 1894._

_The Hound of the Baskervilles. 1902._

_The Return of Sherlock Holmes. 1905._

_The Valley of Fear. 1915._

_His Last Bow. 1917._

_The Casebook of Sherlock Holmes. 1927._

The dates inside the covers and the general condition of the books thwarted Sherlock's original hypothesis that someone had been plagiarizing John's blog. Shaking, and at a true loss as to what to do for the first time since the days of Moriarty, Sherlock clenched his hands together behind his back and turned back toward the Doctor and Director Fury.

Fury, at least, had the decency to look uncomfortable as Sherlock gazed at him. The Doctor was still grinning, but the smile slid off his face rather quickly when Sherlock spoke, choosing to act on the first course of action that presented itself to his mind.

"I want a room," he said, pitching his voice much lower in order to control its timbre. "I want a room, twenty four hours, and I'll be taking these books with me."

"Oh for the love of...!" The Doctor cried, scrubbing his thin fingers through his messy hair before throwing his hands up in frustration. "What better proof do you need than the dates, Mr. Holmes?! We need your  _help_  here!"

"Doctor," Fury muttered, as he set a bracing hand on the Doctor's shoulder. "You  _have_  just called their entire existence into question. Let them take some time."

The Doctor shrugged out of Fury's grip, his elastic expression hardening into something cold that hardly looked at home on his face. "All right," he said, "All right, all right, but stop saying that! I'm not calling  _anyone’s_  existence into question; you all  _exist_. Bloody hell, isn't that much obvious? What we should be worried about are all the people that are  _ceasing_  to exist--!"

Sherlock filed the Doctor's statement somewhere in the back of his mind for later consideration.  _One thing at a time._  "Director Fury, the room?"

"It will be arranged," said Fury. "If you wait here, someone will come for you shortly. I do, however, have one question."

"And what is that?" asked Sherlock, watching from the corner of his eye as John set  _A Study in Scarlet_  down on the table and sank wearily into one of the chairs.

"Actually, it's for Dr. Watson," said the director, inclining his head politely to Sherlock and turning to address John, who waved his hand at Fury, inviting him to continue.

"I understand if you would like to accompany Mr. Holmes as he examines these books, since you are also one of the....er, main characters, so to speak," said Fury, as tactfully as possible. "But...well, I hate to ask this of you, Dr. Watson, but we have a couple of agents who were injured in the last…ah, engagement. Stark insists he can take care of himself, but since his idea of disinfecting a wound includes pouring vodka over it and sticking on a few Band-Aids, I'd feel much better if--"

"Oh, blimey, just shut up, I'll do it," John sighed, scrubbing the horrified expression from his face with his hands. "That's just...what kind of people do you employ here, anyway?" he asked, standing up and draining the last little bit of coffee from his cup.

Fury ignored the question.

“You’ll take him down to the medical bay, Doctor,” he said, turning toward the door. “I’ll find Ms. Potts and ask her to prepare a room for our…” Fury paused, glancing between Sherlock and John for a moment before settling on the word, “…guests.” He nodded at them both, then set off down the corridor, muttering into a device clipped to his coat.

"John, are you quite sure...?" Sherlock caught John’s eyes and quirked an eyebrow at him, knowing already that John would prefer to distract himself with some kind of work until Sherlock was finished making his observations. He simply nodded when John waved him off.

"Go," John mumbled, picking up his coat and shrugging back into it. "We'll talk later, yeah?"

"Of course," Sherlock replied, forcing himself to smile as the still-disgruntled Doctor led John from the room.

As soon as the door clicked shut behind them, Sherlock sank into a chair. He looked at the collection of books, and then down at his hands.

_(I am not a fictional character)_

He glanced at the books again, where the words SHERLOCK HOLMES mocked him from their covers.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

** ◄J O H N► **

“You’re kidding me, right?”

Tony Stark was bruised and battered in more places than John could count, but he began to take mental inventory of the wounds anyway. Focusing on what he knew, what he _understood—_ rather than Stark’s gleeful and disbelieving response to their introduction—was the only thing that was going to keep that prickling sense of panic from creeping its way up his spine and into his brain.

_This is not the time to be having a panic attack,_ he told himself fiercely. _Focus, John Watson. What are you dealing with? What’s right in front of you, right now?_

What was in front of him was a patient. Dried blood was crusted into the man’s dark, raised eyebrows, and an ugly bruise stained his left cheek like a growth of mould. Pain shot through his brown eyes as he cracked a smirk at John, and the movement broke open a laceration near the outer corner of his left eye. _Narrow but deep,_ John observed, _Needs stitches._ Fresh blood ran in rivulets down Stark’s discolored cheek and into his carefully shaved goatee. _Need to stop that,_ John thought, allowing his clinical doctor’s instincts to take over for the time being. He reached into a container on the counter and pulled out a packet of gauze, which he tore into and pressed against the wound on Stark’s browbone.

“Oi, get me some disinfectant,” he barked over his shoulder. He could at least clean the poor bloke up until S.H.I.E.L.D.’s own doctors could be called. “You, hold that there,” he added to his adopted patient.

Stark was still smiling as he took the gauze from John and held it tight against the gash on his face.

“Well, I can definitely believe you’re a doctor,” he said, “But since you don’t have a mustache I’m kinda hard pressed to believe you’re Doc Watson. Of course, a fictional doctor from a bunch of detective stories written about a century ago is probably more useful than _this_ guy.” He jerked his head briefly at the Doctor; almost as soon as the movement was made he hissed and cringed, bringing up one battered hand to rub around his neck.

_Whiplash, most likely,_ John thought, even as Stark said, “Jesus, that hurts. I suspect the culprit is whiplash, my dear Watson.”

John could feel his hands beginning to shake as he rummaged through one of the drawers. Normally, no amount of taunting sarcasm could get to him—living with Sherlock Holmes would give anyone a thick skin—but something about Stark’s tone, the ease with which he treated the idea that was currently threatening to trigger a panic attack like John had not seen since his first days back from the war made John unable to keep his focus on the situation at hand.

_(I am not a fictional character)_

He tightened all the muscles of his arms and hands until the trembling began to subside, but ticklish fingers of anxiety were beginning to draw their way up his spine, threatening to plunge themselves into his mind until he started screaming.

_(I am not fictional I am not I am not fictional I am real this is real is this real)_

A hand dropped on John’s shoulder; with his nerves already on a hair trigger, John was startled. He whirled around, posture already on the defensive—

_The Doctor._ John’s shoulders relaxed slightly. The peculiar man was holding both his hands in front of him, brows raised. In one of his hands was bottle of hydrogen peroxide.

“Easy, Dr. Watson,” he said, his mobile mouth spreading into another smile. "And Stark, do try to shut up. Dr. Watson hasn’t quite, er…adjusted to everything yet.”

 “That’s the understatement of the century,” John muttered to himself. He took the bottle of peroxide with a nod of thanks—the fact that the Doctor had been the one to reveal the novels apparently based off his and Sherlock’s lives still rankled, but his touch had diffused some of the panicked adrenaline that had built up inside of him and John was able to search through the drawer with steady hands. He pulled out some more gauze and began to shrug out of his jacket.

“Right, then,” he said, rubbing his hands together. “I’ll clean him up a bit while you go fetch the S.H.I.E.L.D. doctors, yeah? I think he might need a few stitches.”

John did not like the look of the smile that spread itself across the Doctor’s thin face. It looked too sheepish, and yet somehow not quite sheepish enough.

“Oh, well, you know,” the Doctor scratched the back of his head, setting his already-messy hair into further disarray. “I’m sure you’re more than capable of putting in a few stitches, Dr. Watson!”

John narrowed his eyes, which the Doctor did not meet. “Well yes, but I presume that Mr. Stark would prefer to be treated by his own physician.”

 “I’m afraid the Doctor is the only Doctor in the house, Dr. Watson,” said Tony Stark, with a little laugh that bordered on the edge of hysteria. “Except for you, of course, but you’re not exactly real, are you? Don’t worry, apparently I’m not either.” He started laughing again.

“Doctor?” John reluctantly tore his eyes away from his patient. “Doctor, what does he mean by that?”

“It’s really quite funny when you think about it,” said the Doctor, and John could have smacked him for the grin on his face.

“I find,” John began fiercely, “Absolutely _nothing_ funny about the fact that I am apparently the fictional creation of some bloke who lived a hundred years ago. There is _nothing funny_ about that fact that _me,_ my _life,_ all the bloody things that have happened to me are supposedly _made up!_ What the bloody hell do you expect me to do with information like that?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” said Stark. Though his tone was cheerful, the way in he said the words reminded John sharply of Sherlock. “He expects you to accept it. Doc Alien here landed his weird little spaceship in my tower, starts ranting and raving like it’s the end of the world, and when he’s introduced to everyone he starts laughing like a lunatic because apparently S.H.I.E.L.D. and its operatives are nothing but a bunch of comic book characters.”

“Alien…? Spaceship? Comic…?” John looked back over his shoulder at Stark. The man was grinning, the smile breaking the clots of dried blood in his goatee, but his liquid brown eyes were screaming.

“Comic book characters,” Stark repeated, “Which Cap is, of course, but he was only turned into one after he got himself frozen ten thousand leagues under the sea.”

“Who…” John closed his eyes, swallowing the question. There were too many more pressing ones spiraling around inside his head to waste breath on asking who Cap might be. Instead, he turned back toward the Doctor.

“Don’t you think we deserve some kind of explanation, Doctor?” he asked through gritted teeth. “It appears mine and Sherlock’s world isn’t the only one you’ve managed to turn to a bloody shambles!”

“You’ll get your explanation, Dr. Watson,” said the Doctor at length. The smile had vanished from the man’s face, John noticed: only his eyes, dark and glittering with intensity, hinted that he’d been affected by John’s outburst at all. “You both will,” he added, nodding to Stark as he rocked up on his tiptoes.

“Well praise Thor’s papa for that,” Stark remarked, to John’s bewilderment. “Gonna drop some alien knowledge on us, Doc?”

The Doctor seemed not to have heard. When he glanced up at them again, it seemed as if centuries had settled into the lines and shadows of his face. He studied the two of them, John Watson and Tony Stark, for only a moment before tucking his hands into the pockets of his pinstripe trousers and turning away.

“You’ll get your explanation,” he said again as he walked away. “You won’t like it and it won’t help, but you’ll get it.”

He left the way he’d come, leaving John more confused and conflicted than he’d been before.

“Sort of melodramatic, isn’t he?” asked Stark, still holding the wad of gauze against his browbone. “Come on, my dear Watson, and stitch me up. I’ve got a suit to repair.”

“Right, yeah.” John gave himself a quick mental shake. He’d been promised an explanation—what he needed to do now was focus on what was in front of him, and right now that appeared to be a smart-mouthed billionaire in need of several stitches.

“I imagine whatever got ahold of you would have ruined your suit,” John said, falling into patient-friendly small talk almost without thinking. “I think I’d just buy a new one, mate.” He spread his instruments across a clean towel and set about sterilizing them.

Stark let out a short laugh that made him wince. _Bruised ribs, probably,_ John noted as Stark said, “Buy one? Sorry, Watson, but my suits are not for sale. Not by a long shot.”

“Bespoke, then,” John said.  A sudden, unwelcome image of a grinning Moriarty in his Westwood surfaced, and John shoved it quickly into the recesses of his mind.

”Be-what?” Stark tried to furrow his brow; fresh blood seeped into the stained gauze pad.

_Forgotten you’re not in London anymore, John?_ He shook his head slightly as he amended himself. “Custom made, I mean. Sorry.” He could almost hear Sherlock _tsk_ ing him as he threaded the suture needle.

“Oh, yeah,” Stark nodded. “Totally custom made. Build them myself, and this one’s not _too_ banged up, I just didn’t know what I was dealing with.”

_Funny way to refer to making clothes,_ John thought, but all he said was, “You can take that gauze off now.” He grabbed an alcohol wipe and tore into it as Stark peeled off the bloody gauze.

“So what _were_ you dealing with?” he asked, biting the inside of his lip to keep from smiling as Stark hissed and shrank away from the sting of the alcohol. Sherlock would always do the same thing.

“Apparently, demons,” said Stark. “Hey, watch the pointy thingy! You’re stitching awfully close to my eye, you know.”

“Sorry.” John pulled back his hands, which had just been about to begin the suturing process when Stark had said _demons._ “But did you just—I mean, what?”

Stark only shrugged, watching with wary eyes as John moved his hands—now steady as they’d ever been—back to their work. He flinched for the first stitch or two, then relaxed a bit.

“Yeah, demons. Or that’s what Doc Alien said they were,” Stark added. “All I know is I hope like hell they never get into Bruce.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

◄ **S H E R L O C K ►**

As John worked to patch up the battered Tony Stark, Sherlock sat alone in a small but sumptuous bedroom somewhere within Stark Tower. He was somewhat perturbed with himself for paying so little attention to his surroundings as he followed Pepper Potts through the maze of halls and elevators, but if he was honest with himself, he had been more than a little preoccupied with contemplating the books he and Fury’s companion were carrying.

 “If there is anything that you need, Mr. Holmes, just ask JARVIS,” Ms. Potts had told him as she stepped out of the room. “We’re a little short staffed, but someone will bring you whatever you need as soon as possible.”

 “Thank you, but I doubt I shall require very much.”

Ms. Potts had rolled her eyes at him—looking back, Sherlock supposed he _had_ been a trifle short with her _—_ but just before she could close the door, Sherlock had thought of something.

“Could you see to it that John knows where to find me?” he had asked, realizing that his preoccupation with those bloody books would prevent him from being able to explain his location. “Once he’s finished playing doctor for the Director’s employee, of course.”

At that, Ms. Potts’ professional demeanor had fractured somewhat. She had grinned broadly and actually let out a small giggle.

“Oh my Lord,” she had  mumbled to herself, before pressing a fist to her lips and clearing her throat in an effort to recover herself.

“I will do so, Mr. Holmes,” she had replied, and turned to leave. Before she had closed the door, however, she turned back, smiling again. “Just…whatever you do, _don’t_ let Tony hear you call him Director Fury’s _employee._ He’ll have a fit.”

Then the door had closed, and Sherlock could hear her gleeful laughter until it faded away down the corridor.

_Stark must be a man of considerable ego,_ Sherlock had noted, before settling down at the little office desk and opening _A Study in Scarlet._

The pages had that particular smell of which bibliophiles tended to be so fond. Sherlock wrinkled his nose.

_(Created by paper acidity various environmental factors it’s only the mind’s interpretation that makes it seem nice bloody dust)_

Sherlock sneezed into his elbow. Scowling, he seized a tissue from the box on the desk, covered his mouth and nose with it, and began to examine the book, directing the flow of his thoughts into a more coherent channel.

The cover was a deep red, with slightly faded gilt accents along the spine and the edges of the covers. It was in remarkably good condition, but the pages were not as thick and heavy as Sherlock had first assumed. _Likely one of the first books to be printed with wood-pulp paper,_ he thought, as he tapped a finger over the small, black _1888_ set into the title page. _Likely worth a fair amount of money, as well. Not that Stark appears to need it._

Sherlock flipped carefully through the pages, estimating the approximate length of the work. It did not appear to be over 50,000 words. _I read at an accelerated pace, as well,_ he thought, turning back to the first page. _This won’t take very long at all._

A running stream of observation established itself in the back of his mind as he began to read; he barely even paused before he was on to _The Sign of Four._

_The similarities to John and myself are so accurate as to be disturbing,_ he thought, swapping one dusty novel for the other. _And as for viewing myself through John’s eyes…no, not important. Consider later, if at all. Focus on the work. The similarities to_ A Study in Pink _…significant, though not remarkably so. My fictional self is far too patient with imbeciles, it would seem, but I suppose it_ is _the Victorian era. John…they’re so alike. Thank Heavens for no mustache, of course. Victorian Dr. Watson seems a bit more patient with his Sherlock Holmes._

When he’d first asked for the books and the room, Sherlock had fully intended to focus most heavily on the parallels between his cases and the cases depicted within the books. As time wore on and he moved into the short stories in _The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes,_ however, he began to discover that most of the time, no such side-by-side comparison was possible. Small matters that he and John had handled quickly and without incident often comprised whole short stories within the books, and more often than not, he came across a story which was utterly unfamiliar. He began to note case similarities almost absently, filing them away without further consideration. What occupied him now—and what he was no longer able to ignore—were the interactions between his and John’s fictional doppelgangers, whose relationship, according to the Doctor, the Director, and Pepper Potts, was one of the greatest and most famous in all of literary history.

He had read of John’s marriage with a curious feeling in the back of his throat, one that did not seem to want to dissipate when he swallowed. It subsided only as the tales wore on.

_(Still runs off with me at a moment’s notice still seems to live at Baker Street half the time Mary hasn’t even been named since that second one she’s only “John’s wife”)_

Sherlock did try to keep from smirking. After all, he’d only look smug, and such things really ought to be beneath him, but…

_(It isn’t as if anyone is here)_

He read on, coming eventually to _A Scandal in Bohemia._

_The Woman._

He paused for a moment, recalling the Woman’s face as he entered the first four letters of his name into her phone. He hadn’t so much as laid eyes on her since he’d saved her from losing her head. _I wonder…_

To his surprise, Sherlock found that he respected the Woman from _A Scandal in Bohemia_ even more than the one with whom he had interacted. He had respected the modern day Woman, of course, but only grudgingly. She was impressive, but…

_I felt sorry for her,_ Sherlock realized, _And I don’t particularly like people that I have to feel sorry for. This Victorian woman, on the other hand…_

Irene Adler of the Victorian Era was not someone to feel sorry for. She did not appear to have feelings for his Victorian counterpart, which allowed her to truly get the better of him. Sherlock had often scorned the idea of reading fiction for pleasure, but he found himself actually rooting for _Bohemia’s_ Adler. He enjoyed her victory—for a moment, before becoming irritated with his fictional self for allowing it to happen—and especially appreciated that despite marrying, she obviously did not require a man to save her.

Sherlock sat back in his chair, his stiff back and the sandy quality of his throat alerting him to just how long he had been reading. _They’re all here,_ he thought.   _John and I. Mrs. Hudson. Lestrade. The Woman. The only one not present so far…_ He scrubbed a hand over his features in an imitation of John, dark brows drawing toward his nose as he gazed down at the array of old books.

_The only one unaccounted for is Moriarty._

It was true. As far as Sherlock had read—through the novella-length _Study in Scarlet_ and _Sign of Four,_ plus the first several short stories in _The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes—_ he had seen no mention of Moriarty, no hint that any of the cases had been orchestrated by the madman, as had his own.

He sat for a moment, tapping the index fingers of his folded hands against his nose as he studied the pile of books and bullied his brain into thinking about his history with the monstrous madmen in as orderly a fashion as possible. _I first became aware of Moriarty during_ Study in Pink, he thought, _But so far I’ve read nothing that would even be considered a foreshadowing of his existence._

He picked up the old book, carefully cradling the spine, and began to flip through the next story, one called _The Five Orange Pips._ As he skimmed the text, piping melodies from a pink phone began to echo through his mind, followed closely by the cracked, wavering murmur of an old blind woman.

_(Past)_

The melodies played on and the old woman whispered to him across two years and a river of death.

_(Past useless delete)_

He turned another page. He tried to ignore the way his mind disobeyed him. He read onward, but the memories of his first encounter with Moriarty were insistent, niggling. He continued reading even as it became evident that _The Five Orange Pips_ bore only the most superficial of similarities to his own case, and that no psychotic puppeteer was pulling the strings of the story.

Only when his mind offered up the memory of John’s fluttering lids blinking out SOS did Sherlock put the book down and bury his face into his cupped hands.

“So that’s your last revenge, is it?” The sound of his voice was flat, almost a whisper. It drifted into the room’s dusty silence and died there. Sherlock ran his fingers up into the disarray of his hair, clutching and snatching, as if the sharp pinpricks of pain could persuade his mind to repair whatever Moriarty had broken. And the madman _had_ broken him.

Sherlock had perfected his ability to delete unwanted information and wall off unwanted emotions through years of painstaking practice. He had used it like armor, keeping out all that might distract and detract from the work that kept him sane. Yet Moriarty had known him better than he knew himself, and the very first crack in that previously unbreachable armor had come when he’d seen John’s body strapped over in a layer of explosives.

Sherlock felt his hands begin to shake.

_(He is alive he is alive and you bloody sentiment not an advantage a detriment delete clear you mind damn you)_

He dug his fingernails into his scalp, furious with his mind and his body for their blatant disobedience.

Slowly—very slowly—Sherlock was able to calm himself. He sank into the ordered halls of his mind palace, grudgingly allowing the memories to play themselves out and take their toll on the emotional part of him that he so despised. Even when he tucked them away again the _feelings_ attached to them lingered, like the aftertaste of a particularly nasty cough syrup. It was not his preferred method of coping, but in the past months he had found that if he allowed himself to be plagued for just a little while, it would be a little easier to concentrate later.

He was so deep in his mind that he nearly jumped out of his own skin when he felt a warm, heavy hand sink down upon his shoulder.

“Bloody _hell,_ Sherlock!” John jerked his hand away, stumbling backward and catching himself on the foot of one of the room’s two twin beds. “I thought you were asleep! You move like a cat, nearly gave me a damn heart attack.”

It seemed as if a smile were playing with the corners of John’s lips, but his eyes were haggard. _Exhausted,_ Sherlock thought, before waving off John’s words.

“Nonsense, you’re far too healthy for a heart attack,” he said. “Thankfully, so am I. I’m afraid I was very deep in thought, John, I didn’t hear you come in.”

“I was exaggerating, you nutter, but thanks for the sentiment,” John rolled his eyes, shifting himself further up onto the foot of the bed. “ _Were_ you sleeping?”

 “No,” Sherlock answered. “Only considering what I’ve read.”

( _Not a lie not exactly)_

“Ah,” John nodded, then motioned for Sherlock to pass him the book open across the desk. He read through the first paragraph or so, his lips forming the loose shapes of the words as he did so. Usually John’s tendency to half-whisper to himself as he read drove Sherlock nearly as mad as his hunt-and-peck typing.

_Imagining someone in a vest of dynamite certainly does make one more charitable._ Sherlock crossed his ankles and waited for John to speak.

“ _The Blue Carbuncle?”_ John mumbled at length. “This doesn’t sound like anything we’ve covered before.”

“I’m afraid I haven’t read that one yet,” Sherlock answered, “I only read through _The Man with the Twisted Lip,_ but I’m not surprised. A couple of the other early stories don’t bear any particular resemblance to our own cases.”

“But the _Study in Scarlet_ one?” John slid off the bed and set the book back down on the desk before picking up the volume in question. He began to peruse it as well, leaning his hip against the edge of the desk, and for a moment Sherlock found himself distracted as he inhaled the smells of John’s nearness.

_(Deodorant cologne laundry detergent the cheap stuff he keeps meaning not to buy it reek of alcohol antibacterial gel benzoyl peroxide from patching up Stark and that one the under one the one I don’t know can’t name)_

It was the last one—the warm, earthy-spice smell that seemed to be just John—that brought Sherlock back to the present, to the immediacy of John next to him.

_Alive._ Sherlock’s lips turned up slightly.

“That one was quite similar, actually,” he said, tilting his chair back on two legs to look up at John. “Yet most of the time, the correlations between cases are not so cut-and-dried. Judging from what I’ve read so far, it appears that any one of our cases may contain many different aspects of any case listed in these books, or none at all. I did not recognize anything from _The Red-headed League,_ but I’m certain that _The Five Orange Pips_ is an allusion to the Greenwich pips of what you called _The Great Game._ Or vice-versa, I suppose, since these books seem to predate ourselves by approximately 120 years.”

“Uh huh.” John glanced down at him from one of the pages of _A Study in Scarlet._ “And is your fictional self as big a prat as you are?”

John’s eyes were dancing beneath his lashes.

_Teasing._

Sherlock let out a short laugh. “Hardly,” he replied. “You will find that he is far more polite than I and has far too much patience with imbeciles, specifically those at the Yard. I daresay you’d prefer him to myself.”

John smiled even as he scoffed. “Not bloody likely,” he remarked, as he set the book back down on the desk. “I imagine you’d be a difficult bloke to tolerate in any century. What about me? Er, well, book-me. Seemed right so far, shot in Afghanistan, broke and living alone.”

“And introduced to me by Stamford,” added Sherlock. “And apparently sporting quite the glorious mustache.”

John’s fingers flew to his upper lip, and the look on his face was so purely horrified that Sherlock was unable to contain a rather undignified snort of laughter.

“Well, _that’s_ off, then,” he mumbled, as he peered cross-eyed at his lower lip. “So it wasn’t too…ah, uncanny, was it?”

Sherlock caught his eyes as John looked back down, noting the way the doctor’s expression seemed to have drawn into itself a bit. _It’s been gnawing at him all day._

“It was…” Sherlock paused, trying for the correct word. “It was unnerving, I must admit. The resemblances between cases are only a part of it. Truthfully it’s the parallels to our personal lives that struck me. I was a little surprised by that, I’d expected to be more distressed over the work.”

“Yeah, you would,” John nodded. “Get on with it, or do I have to read them all myself?”

“You should,” Sherlock said. “It would be easier to discuss that way, but I requested only 24 hours and I doubt you’ll be able to get through them all without the head start I have.”

“I was actually being facetious, but okay. I’ll just read what you tell me.” John shrugged. “Now go on.”

“Very well.” Sherlock leaned back in his chair, gazing up at John.

“The stories are, of course, told predominantly from the point of view of your Victorian counterpart,” he began. “I am aware, of course, that upon our first meeting and our first few hours as flatmates you were impressed with my singular abilities because you did not tell me to piss off when I first demonstrated them. That is something I know: that I impressed you. In reading _A Study in Scarlet,_ however, I was deeply struck by the intense and detailed manner in which your Victorian doppelganger described not only our meeting, but my counterpart himself. I admit that I have nothing of yours to which I could compare—”

“You really _don’t_ read my blog, do you?” John’s interruption caught Sherlock off guard. He was smiling, but it was the sort of smile he usually reserved for small children when Sherlock needed information from them but frightened them too much to attain it himself.

“As I’ve said before, no,” Sherlock replied, “Well, I’ve skimmed it a bit, but really, John, you make it so _romantic—”_

“If you’d read it, you’d see that I _do_ describe you,” John told him. “I fancy I’ve given my readers a pretty detailed view of who you are, mate, even if I do poke fun at you. And I know you hear all the ruddy words I say when I’d do better to keep my mouth shut, like “fantastic” and “amazing” and the lot. I really shouldn’t feed your ego like that, you know.”

John was still smiling down at him, with his arms crossed over his chest and his hip leaned against the desk.  When Sherlock opened his mouth to speak and then closed it, not knowing what to say, John laughed.

“Don’t sit there trying to think of what you’re supposed to say, mate,” John said. “Yes, my fictional twin and I apparently feel the same about our respective nutter detectives. Carry on.”

“Yes, well.” Sherlock shifted in his seat, searching for the threads of his thought process. “As I said. I was struck by the fictional Dr. Watson’s powers of description. The interactions between our storybook selves, as well as the way they are described by the other John Watson, took me off guard to a certain extent…and yet they were familiar in a way. I recognized our behavior and our relationship, and yet at the same time it surprised me. I was surprised by its…”

Sherlock trailed off, realizing that he was drifting into unfamiliar territory.

_Surprised by its mere reality?_

_(An irrational and abstract answer)_

_Surprised by the fact that I, in any incarnation, in any plane of existence—_

_(Not even a remotely concrete thought Sherlock do shut yourself up)_

_—managed to develop and secure a relationship of such depth and obvious meaning?_

_(No)_

 “By its detailed similarity to our own, I suppose,” finished Sherlock at length. “And while your mustachioed twin might be a bit more flattering toward my own other self, I believe that is balanced by the greater grasp my other self seems to have on social propriety.”

“Now that’s a laugh,” John mumbled. “You understanding social propriety.” He shifted away from the desk and propped his back against the wall.

_(Chewing the inside of his lower lip attempting to formulate a serious question)_

“I just…” John sighed, rubbing his hand across the shadow of blond scruff on his cheeks and chin. “I just don’t bloody _get it,_ Sherlock. We’re not fictional, obviously, we’re real people, so why the hell do these stories exist?”

“I rarely say these words,” Sherlock replied. “But John, I don’t know.”

_But I’ll figure it out._

For a long moment there was nothing but silence between the two of them. When it was broken, however, it was not John’s voice Sherlock heard but the carefully orchestrated tones of Stark’s AI robot-in-the-walls, JARVIS.

“Excuse me, Dr. Watson and Mr. Holmes?”

“Ah…” John glanced down at him, obviously bewildered, and Sherlock could only shrug.

“Yes, JARVIS?” he ventured. “What is it?”

“I do apologize for the inconvenience, but I am afraid that the two of you must be escorted away from this area of Stark Tower immediately,” the AI said. “Your escorts should be arriving right about—”

“Now.”

Sherlock stood up as the bedroom door was flung open, revealing two people whom he did not recognize. The woman who had spoken was small and redheaded, with one Glock pistol in her hand and the other secured in a leg holster. The man next to her was lithe and athletic, with a quiver of very industrial-looking arrows on his back. A high-tech bow was clutched in his left hand and he wore a three-fingered archery glove on his right.

 “Natasha Romanova and Clint Barton are agents of S.H.I.E.L.D.,” said JARVIS, “They will escort you to safety.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

** ◄J O H N► **

John glanced toward Sherlock, who met his eyes for the briefest moment before shifting his gaze to John’s side, to the two S.H.I.E.L.D. agents, and then back again, at which point Sherlock gave him the barest nod.

John understood the movement of Sherlock’s pale eyes as easily as speech. _Size them up._

He turned back toward the two agents, taking in their appearance with the best imitation of Sherlock’s deduction skills that he could muster. He would miss things—he always did—but it was undeniable that he was more familiar with military men and women, a fact which Sherlock acknowledged.

_She’s small but she’s not weak,_ John thought, as he ran his eyes over the redheaded woman’s body. He felt like a bit of a creep as he did so, and tried to stick to pertinent observations. She had a compact, dense sort of musculature that John had observed in some female members of his own unit, and yet there was something about the way she held and moved her body that wasn’t strictly military. Her movement was fluid, silent. She wore a tight black catsuit, and John took pains not to admire the fit too closely; he understood that it allowed her a great deal of free movement, and there was little danger of an enemy attaining an advantageous handhold on the material. _Special agent of some sort,_ he concluded, _Don’t doubt she knows how to handle those guns._

He shifted his attention toward the man with the bow. John had little real familiarity with archery, but he could tell that the bow was well-crafted and of the highest quality. The man’s arms were bare, with the exception of the dark leather archery glove he wore, and even with the smallest movement of his arms, John could detect the subtle movements of tight muscle under the skin. He held himself a little more stiffly than his companion— _There’s at least some formal military training there—_ and even beneath the strangely colored glasses, John could tell that his eyes followed the woman wherever she moved. The glasses themselves he was a little more familiar with, as they appeared to be the sort designed to filter light for optimal clarity of vision, and perfect for a man whose chosen weapon appeared to be the bow and arrow.

His observations took only a few seconds, and he turned to Sherlock, conveying his approval. _They know what they’re doing._

 “If there’s anything you need that isn’t too heavy or awkward to carry with you, go ahead and grab it now,” the woman— _Romanova,_ John reminded himself, _Her name is Natasha Romanova—_ said, as she turned back toward the two of them from her examination of the hallway. “And I’d advise you to turn off any technological gadgets that you’d like to keep in working order.”

 “Sure,” John said, reaching into his pocket and switching off his cell phone. “But d’you mind me asking just what we’re being kept safe from, here?”

 “Wouldn’t believe us if we told you, Dr. Watson,” Barton said. “Just stay close to use, you’ll be fine. More of a precaution than anything, really.”

John glanced over at Sherlock, to see what he thought of that statement, but when he saw the look on Sherlock’s face, he just sighed.

_Even when he’s willing to take my word for it, it’s like bloody instinct,_ he thought, watching Sherlock’s eyes rove over Romanova’s body with such clinical frankness that he had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from giggling.

 “You aren’t American,” said Sherlock, with his usual lack of anything even resembling tact. “KGB or SVR? You’re a little young for the KGB, although it’s not impossible, I suppose.”

To John’s surprise, Romanova actually smiled at him. “Both, actually,” she answered, and now that Sherlock had mentioned it John was able to detect the faintest hint of an accent. “I’ve heard all about you, Mr. Holmes, and as impressive as your skills are I’m afraid we’re a little pressed for time. Clint?”

 “Yeah, Nat, yeah,” Barton gave her a brief smile before maneuvering himself behind Sherlock and John. Sherlock opened his mouth to say something, but to John’s amusement, Barton cut him off.

 “Circus, not gymnast,” he said, smirking a little, and this time John _did_ laugh, because Sherlock looked so genuinely put out.

 “You two stay between us,” Romanova said, checking the gun in her thigh holster and switching off the safety of the one in her hand. “I’ll be in front, because the gun is quicker. Clint is in the back, becau—”

 “I see better from a distance.” Barton grinned, and John noted the small, bemused smile that played across Romanova’s lips before she settled herself back into business mode.

 “I was going to say, because the bow is slower,” she finished, “But yes, that too. Anyway, the two of you, stay close. Again, this shouldn’t be anything more than a precaution, but we don’t want either of you running off.”

John couldn’t resist poking an elbow into Sherlock’s side. The frown he got in return nearly made him laugh again.

Romanova either didn’t catch or didn’t notice this little exchange. “Last chance, is there anything that you’d like to take with you?”

Sherlock reached over to the desk and pocketed _The Adventures, The Memoirs,_ and _The Return_ of himself, then handed John the dusty copy of _The Hound of the Baskervilles._ John was just about to tuck it into the inside pocket of his coat when Romanova caught his hand.

 “What is it?” he asked, but the redhead only nodded at the weapon settled into his shoulder-holster.

 “Impressive,” she said with a little arch of her eyebrow. She turned back toward the door. “I don’t doubt you know what to do with it, Dr. Watson, but whatever happens…well, please try not to have to use it.”

Something about her tone unnerved him, almost annoyed him, even. He shrugged his shoulders, settling the holster into a more comfortable position against his side. “I won’t have to,” he said, “So long as you two know what you’re doing, right?”

The tiny snort of laughter that escaped Sherlock at that made him feel a little less tense, but Barton’s next comment did not.

“Well, I wouldn’t say that.” He smiled a little, settling an arrow into his bow as Romanova waved them forward. “But we do know more about it than you guys, so that means something, right?”

It turned out to mean nothing at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, if you notice any errors in spelling, grammar, or punctuation, please point them out! I'll fix them as soon as possible.


	5. Reality Check

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sherlock must redefine reality.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ►Please be sure you've read the new subchapter in the chapter before this one before you continue. Cheers!
> 
>  
> 
> ►TRIGGER WARNING: ALLUSIONS TO RAPE. If you'd rather not read this subchapter for that reason, a short summary is provided in the end-notes.

 

** ◄S H E R L O C K► **

Sherlock pushed the bolt lock of the bathroom stall with trembling hands, locking himself inside the dark little cubicle as if he could somehow lock himself away from all that had happened in the past hour. He tried to lower the toilet lid; it fell with a sharp clatter, and Sherlock collapsed into a sitting position, digging his useless, shaking hands into his hair as if his disarrayed curls were a net to trap their movement. He fought with himself to regain some semblance of composure.

_(Calm yourself clear your mind)_

His fingernails pricked deep into his scalp; warm blood beaded on his fingertips, then slipped down the length of his pale fingers, wet strokes from unwanted tongues. He wanted to wash his hands, but if he took his hands away from his head, he felt as if it might break apart, spilling all his disjointed thoughts out onto the white tile floor.

_(Sherlock Holmes get ahold of yourself right this minute)_

_(I had a hold on myself I always do I always did and it was taken away)_

_(You cannot think like that)_

There was no _not_ thinking like that, not even here, locked away from the rest of the world, locked away from John, with every muscle of his body tensed against the memory of it. No, the memories invaded his mind as surely as the darkness had invaded it, a confirmation of the initial violation.

_Violation._

A horrible sort of understanding came to him in that moment, as he remembered the vague disgust with which he had once regarded a young woman involved in a former case. She had been raped, but instead of coming straight to the authorities in order to be rape kitted, she had taken a shower, scrubbing her skin a raw pink and washing away all evidence of her attacker. The case had been in the days before John had joined him, and he had thought the girl to be stupid for allowing her rampaging emotions get the better of her common sense. Thanks to John’s influence, Sherlock had been able to recognize his own error in judgment, but recognition was not the same as understanding…and now, Sherlock understood.

He imagined himself washing his own brain with the same furor that the young woman had washed her body; he envisioned himself scrubbing the frontal, parietal, occipital, temporal lobes with the roughest material, the hottest water, the most astringent soaps, knowing the whole time that it was a symbolic gesture, a surface reaction that could never touch the place where the violation truly lived.

He saw the swirl of black smoke in his memory, as clearly as if it were happening again. He smelled the rotten-egg reek of sulfur, remembered observing the oddly particulate look of the smoke, and then it was coming at him: taste of sulfur in his mouth, sliding liquid down his throat; stench of sulfur in his nose, searing his sinuses; grainy sting of smoke in his eyes, tiny particles of shadow scratching past his eyeballs into his eye sockets; deafening rush of wind and dust in his ears, an assault on his eardrums.

Wherever Sherlock’s soul resided, darkness had enveloped it.

He remembered the _suffocation_ of it, of having his very self forced down, pushed back, until the monstrous film of shadow had slid itself between the activities of his body and the suffocated light of his soul. Sherlock was cut off from his own body, denied physical control; instead his form was piloted by this…

_(Say it admit it at least to yourself you can do that much you have to do that much)_

“Demon,” Sherlock muttered, and the echo of the creature’s laugh inside his mind made him scratch into his scalp again.

It had sounded like him, that was the deepest horror of it. The demon had appropriated everything, even Sherlock’s own voice, twisting it into something cruel, cold, heartless.

_“No room for me in this brain of yours, is there, Sherlock Holmes?”_ the monster had asked. _“No consideration, no belief…but here I am, Sherlock Holmes, and I must say, your fear tastes sweet.”_

He had tried to scream. He had _tried._ He had thrown himself against the darkness, had attempted to take back control, but the demon held him prisoner inside himself. It choked him down until he could feel the light of his soul guttering in the black.

_“What can’t I do to you like this?”_ the demon had said. _“Or even better…what can’t I do in your name?”_

The horror of what had happened next…Sherlock tensed his shoulders even tighter than before, and still they shook.

Helpless behind his own eyes Sherlock had watched his arm shoot out, a movement too quick to be human. His palm had connected with Barton’s chest and the archer went flying, collapsing breathless against the far wall. Then his other arm had darted forward, snaking itself around John’s throat, and inside himself Sherlock was shouting, _screaming,_ but the demon pulled John’s smaller body close to Sherlock’s narrow chest and began to squeeze. With the other hand it reached into John’s coat, pulled the gun out of the shoulder holster, and nestled the barrel into the blond hair near John’s temple.

“This is a turn-up, isn’t it, John?” said the demon with Sherlock’s voice. “Bet you never saw this coming.”

John’s body had frozen for a moment in Sherlock’s possessed arms. Then the shorter man twisted his head, trying to look at Sherlock’s face, and it was then that Sherlock realized that the demon was making him smile, making him grin, and John’s pleading, panicked eyes were searching his face…

Those eyes had pierced into Sherlock’s vulnerable, imprisoned soul like a knife.

And something…something had happened. Sherlock had tried to scream again, and of course he couldn’t, but the only word on the lips of his soul was _John,_ and his only thought was that he would not let John be betrayed by him again, he would _not,_ and he threw himself against the oppressive shadow with all the force his soul possessed.

And for a moment—only a moment—the darkness wavered.

Sherlock had torn his arm away from John, had thrown the gun down on the ground. He tried to speak and found that it was like tearing ruins from a thousand years of clinging vines. The words scraped his throat like rocks and he could only manage to grind out one word: _“Run.”_

And then it was back. In a single, horrible moment the demon came surging back, shoving him back into himself…and then Sherlock and the demon were both screaming together, their voices doubling over one another in agony. Sherlock had collapsed to his knees as the demon came surging out of him, and he had only a moment to register that his face and shirtfront were dripping wet before another darkness—a familiar darkness—came to envelope him.

He had come to only a few minutes ago, dazed and disoriented in a way he hadn’t been since the cocaine binges of his younger years. His senses had been sluggish. The lingering odor of sulfur in his nostrils had been overpowered by the smell of John, and when he turned his head a little, his cold cheek met the soft material of John’s coat. It had been bundled beneath his head for a pillow. With his half-awake brain registering only the most basic of thoughts— _JohnhomeJohnsafeJohnsafehome—_ Sherlock had turned and burrowed his face into John’s coat like a child.

Many warm minutes passed, and Sherlock’s mind had begun to sharpen. He realized that his own coat had been spread over him for a blanket. He was lying on a couch, and the room was very bright: as it filtered through his eyelids the world became reddish instead of dark. A computer hummed. Somewhere very close, John was breathing, though the pattern of it was quick, anxious.

At the realization that John was near, Sherlock had opened his eyes. It had taken his vision longer than usual to swim into focus, refining the features of John’s face until Sherlock could differentiate between the composure of his facial expression and the undiluted fear in the army doctor’s blue eyes.

John had been leaning against the couch, his hip pressed into the back of it, arms crossed over his chest. He had opened his mouth to speak, but at the same moment, Sherlock had caught sight of his gun, sitting snug against his side in the shoulder holster; it was then that the memory of what had happened seized his mind.

He had moved from lying down to standing up much too quickly. John had jumped, and Sherlock had made himself dizzy. Away from John and his coat the smell of sulfur was more pronounced, so much so that it had made him feel nauseous, and the lights were even brighter than he expected. He had slit his eyes against the brightness and seen the shapes of other people—too many other people, some of them he must not know—and, in an attempt not to embarrass himself any more than he perhaps already had, he mumbled something of an excuse and turned toward a door marked _MEN._

And here he sat.

_(And you are no more in control of yourself now than you were when you awoke)_

Sherlock closed his eyes again, realizing that his time was likely running short. John would come looking for him soon, to check if he was all right, and Sherlock had to get himself in hand before that happened. He would not have John see him like this, not if he could help it.

_(And what if John doesn’t come)_

The thought froze him. It was horrible in itself, in all its implications—that John did not believe that he had not been himself, that John believed he had not been himself and did not care—but it was made worse for the fact that it come to him in the snide, sneering voice of his demon self. Would it be with him forever now, another voice in his head that he heard like he heard his own, his brother’s, John’s?

_(There was no demon Sherlock there was never any demon Sherlock you simply can’t admit to yourself how cold cruel hateful evil heartless unfeeling damaged you are and so you created me you’re going mad Sherlock you’re going mad)_

Sherlock cringed, curling more tightly into himself, digging his nails more fiercely into his scalp. He breathed in slowly, holding on to the stench of sulfur in his nose like a lifeline.

_(You’re going mad Sherlock do you think Moriarty was possessed no no no he was a madman and you’re going mad now just like him just like Moriarty he was right you know just like him)_

The horror of the idea paralyzed him. He sensed, in some part of his mind that still managed to remain observant, that his mind and body were responding predictably to severe physical and psychological trauma, but the knowledge was distant, unhelpful.

_Will John think I am mad?_

The idea that John might not understand—that maybe John did not believe that it had been the demon, not Sherlock himself, who had done those terrible things—consumed him with fear. His mind raced, trying to form explanations, to create a coherent and articulate account of what had happened from his point of view, but between the horror-movie images of swirling black smoke, the sickening sense of violation, and the gleefully cruel input from the new, hateful voice inside his mind, he had no success.

“Sherlock!”

Sherlock suddenly realized that he had been staring at John’s shoes through the gap between the stall door and the floor, and that the door was rattling on its hinges. John was asking him to unlock it, but Sherlock could not even unlock his fingers from where they’d become entwined in his hair, gouged into his scalp. He tried to move them, only to have bright bolts of pain explode from the tense joints.

John must have heard the way he hissed in pain, heard his sharp intake of breath. Sherlock heard him mutter, “God dammit, Sherlock.” The detective watched John settle his feet shoulder width apart, and then—

The bolt tore loose and the door flew inward, bouncing off Sherlock’s bony knees, but he barely felt it. He had only just realized that the blood hand run down his fingers, his cheeks, down his hands; it had dripped off his jaw and wrists onto the white tile, and John had seen that, and then John’s knees settled onto the floor, onto the splattered red stains, and John was murmuring to him, pulling his hands out of his hair by blood-tacky wrists.

John turned one of Sherlock’s hands over, shoving the cuff of his shirtsleeve up, and it took Sherlock a few moments to understand the relief that flooded the smaller man’s face. When he did, he managed to speak at last, though his voice was barely above a whisper.

“Really, John,” he mumbled. “You see, but you do not observe. Hardly enough blood for all that.”

“Shut up, you great fucking prat,” John’s voice was quiet but rough, as if he were trying to disguise some overwhelming emotion. He turned Sherlock’s hand over once more, pulling the fingers straight in order to look at the fingernails; Sherlock bit off a small gasp of pain as his stiff joints were abruptly straightened, but John caught the sound nonetheless.

“Sorry,” he said, handling Sherlock’s bloody hand more gently than before. “Fuck’s sake, Sherlock, how did you manage to get yourself so stiff?”

Sherlock had no answer, and John did not press him. Instead he began massaging Sherlock’s pale hands, working his fingers gently around the aching wrist, moving slowly up along the bump of the thumb joint, then to each frozen knuckle in turn, working warmth and life back into them. As he went on, Sherlock felt some of the stiffness begin to seep out of the muscles in his shoulders and back, as well. By the time John was finished with both hands, his own were dusted in flakes of dried blood, but Sherlock found himself able to move again. Every muscle in his body felt as if it had been strained and abused, but he moved, following John to the sinks where they both washed their hands.

Sherlock fought the urge to wash every inch of available skin, reminding himself once more that it was nothing but a symbolic gesture, that it would not actually help anything.

Still, he cupped his hands beneath the little stream of water, letting it gather there for a moment before bringing it up to splash it over his face. It was cold, and the chill of it felt good, revivifying. He groped for a paper towel, grasped one, and scrubbed it over his features, hoping to rub some blood back into his skin. From the way the rest of his body felt, he knew that his face must be a pale, haggard horror.

As he tossed the towel into the bin, he was a little surprised to realize that he felt better. Not 100%, not by any means…but better. John’s mere presence was a calmative to him, and he found that he wanted to talk. He felt as if he _could_ talk, because even if he began to babble and rave, John would be able to understand.

Sherlock leaned his long body against one of the sinks, the porcelain chilly against his backside. His clean hands found their way into his trouser pockets. At length, he looked over to John, who was eyeing him carefully . He waited.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the long delay. Last semester was very stressful and time-consuming. More sub-chapters will continue to be added to this chapter in the next few weeks, so keep checking back. As always, please inform me of any errors so that I can fix them!
> 
> Summary of first sub-chapter for those triggered by allusions to rape: As Natasha and Clint escorted Sherlock and John to their destination, Sherlock was possessed. It happened behind Natasha and John, and Clint could not react quickly enough. While he was possessed, Sherlock injured Clint and threatened John. When the demon began using him to threaten John Sherlock threw off the possession long enough to get John out of harm's way, at which point Natasha shot him in the face with Holy Water. The demon was driven out, and Sherlock fainted. When he came to he was in a room with John, the Avengers, Nick and Maria and the Doctor. He was disoriented and fled to the restroom to try and calm himself, but the horror of what had happened to him disturbed him on many levels. He likened possession to rape. He also struggled hard to wrap his mind around the fact that demons DO exist, which is very difficult for him since he had trusted his own mind and his own beliefs so implicitly. He's very tense, and in his anxiety, he scratches into his scalp, making himself bleed. John finds him in the bathroom and sees the little drops of blood and panics a little, breaking the lock on the stall door in order to get to Sherlock. He massages Sherlock's tense hands in order to calm him down. Sherlock is soothed by John's presence and is eventually ready to talk. Now you can pick up at John's subchapter (when it's posted, that is).

**Author's Note:**

> Please comment and let me know of any errors in spelling, punctuation, etc. Feel free to include Britpicking advice as well!


End file.
